It was only a clinic...

In his fourth voyage across the Atlantic in 1502, Christopher Columbus came upon the island. It was a sliver of lush green hills and forest surrounded by turquoise water for as far as the eye could see. What Columbus had found is now known as Roatan and is one of the Bay Islands off the coast of Honduras along with Utila and Guanaja. 

Roatan is a stopping point for cruise liners, depositing thousands of tourists from all over the world onto the paradise every year for tours, zip lining, scuba and snorkeling, dolphin encounters and of course, great food and drink. On the south side of the island, near a port township called Oak Grove lies a tiny town called Jonesville. 

Explore Jonesville a bit and you are introduced to the mangroves. Cut into the mangrove trees are small canals for inter coastal travel that would allow smaller boats to avoid the ocean’s wrath on a given stormy day. The legends are fixed around the Paya Indians, the original inhabitants of the island and of course, pirates who cut the canals out of the branches and roots of the red mangroves to hide from other pirate ships and the Navies and law of the time. 

Ms.Helen runs a small café and grocery on the shoreline, just off the main street of Jonesville. She caters to the locals who come to her in need of everyday items and for those tourists that come to the Oak Ridge township for tours, scuba and other adventures. She makes a mean tostada and the fresh catch of the day permeates her daily menu.

Behind her cafe is a dirt road. Two signs are set up high on telephone poles as you walk east. One says, “You’re a treasure,” the other, “Dead men tell.” Walk a little further up the road and you come across what seems to be a dirt parking lot until you look up. On the top of a semi steep incline lies a court. 

It’s a sand court but the sand is so thin it’s more of a hard court. Some players wore shoes and others went barefoot. Look around some more and you see color; bright blues, greens and yellows in the wooden bleachers and in the rungs of the 2x4’s that make the ladder to where lights have recently been installed.

It was just a volleyball clinic. Brought by the Bay Islands Beach Volleyball Association and included a couple of coaches from the US. It was a chance to work with some Jonesville locals but it became evident very quickly it was much more.

CommUNITY.

A team started showing up in purple and green uniforms, “Golden Chics” emblazoned on the front. Some went in between the bleachers and plugged in crock pots full of food. Youngsters pac-manned around and a visiting team from another part of Roatan was peppering amongst themselves. The “Golden Chics” milled around, saying hi to everyone, hugging children. The stands began to fill. In between the two sets of bleachers, some of the “Golden Chics” had begun serving and tasting each other's food as if there were an army to feed. It was just a clinic… 

After setting down her food, Ms. Helen popped up in her “Golden Chics” uniform and began to pepper as well. Before twenty minutes had passed, a dirt parking lot sitting in the shade of the steep incline was full of kids, with rope and ribbon tied to trees giving the kids makeshift nets to practice skills on. On the top of the slope, older teens and young adults were playing half court speed ball, although many migrated to the shady side of the court trying to escape the 90+ degrees that bore down on the sunny half. 

The stands filled even more. Grandparents watched their grandkids and some of the Jonesville elders came to watch. They talked to the Americans about when they played this game way back when, against the other towns and islands; a smile never leaving their faces as they spoke of it.

After an hour, the older kids grabbed a younger player and began to give them one on one, or in some cases two and three on one tutoring on whatever skills they were most comfortable teaching. The younger kids loved the attention and soon passing triangles, hitting lines and serving practice overwhelmed the single court. The stands were now packed. Some that arrived a bit later were stuck standing off to the side, taking pictures, chatting with relatives and friends and soaking in the electricity this small commUNITY had created. 

The “Golden Chics” squared off against the younger team from the other side of Roatan, most of whom doubled their training by playing beach volley. It wasn’t close. The “Golden Chics” were valiant in effort and poise and the hometown stands erupted with each hustle play or kill. At the nets were hugs all around; opposing teams, moms and daughters, teammates. 

After, a men’s team representing the other side of Roatan played the Jonesville men. During the exhibition, food was served, stories told, children hugged and the story of how this court came to be was offered.

A love of the game is where it all started. How the Mothers and Grandmothers loved to play when they were younger and they wanted the same for their sons and daughters. So Ms. Helen and the others in town had bake sales, they would make food and host teams and use the money to buy the net, to put up the poles and order uniforms. The lumber was donated by a local businessman and the paint was purchased to give the court its electric feel. Then the lights were added. It seemed in the telling that everyone in the town of Jonesville had a fingerprint on this remarkable volley oasis. 

They spoke of their accomplishments with pride: what they had built and brought to Jonesville and with everyone having skin in the game, they had plans for some restrooms at the top of the court and at the bottom of the steep incline, a kid’s court with lower nets so while the adults played, the kids could follow. No one in Jonesville would be left out of the planning. It was for the town.

And it was clear this wasn’t a one off project. This court was going to be around for the next generation, and maybe even the next. Volleyball wasn’t just a sport, it was a linchpin: it was commUNITY. 

We get jaded at times: the will and desire to win compromising our integrity and humanity, the express elevator for so many kids looking at the elusive full ride, the idea that humility and generosity not being conducive with being “competitive.” But in Jonesville, it all comes crashing back to reality.

Volleyball is a lifelong sport. It’s fun and connective and one of the world’s common languages. Here in Jonesville, it is used for all those things. It’s commUNITY.

As the games ended, the hands shook, hugs and high fives from athletes, coaches, kids, parents and spectators, a lot of the group walked back to Ms. Helen’s store and café, passing under the wooden sign sitting a few yards from the court. Yes, this was only a clinic, but the sign reminded us all of how we will remember Jonesville: